This is fan created fiction about a character in a Vampire: The Masquerade live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
The Cause
by Simon W.
Marianne carefully unpacked the boxes and boxes of books which made up the bulk of her haven. She lived surrounded by them. The only concessions she made to trying to make her home look like a normal human lived here was that the bedroom had a bed in it and she actually used the shower. The living area was filled with book shelves, a couch, and a desk and chair. The dining area held more bookshelves. The kitchen? Well she used kitchen cupboards as bookshelves.
She was putting them away on autopilot, the Dewey Decimal system doing most of the work for her, while she was lost in thought.
Everett had been an objectively terrible sire. No one who knew him could disagree and people who knew his childer only had to look at the fact that the one who had been effectively adopted was a lot more stable than the one who had drifted around on her own for decades. Marianne knew that her feelings about him were anything but objective. And still, she knew he had been a terrible sire.
He'd taught her almost nothing. He wasn't truly an Anarch so he couldn't teach her about the sect he claimed she belonged too. His opinion of the Sabbat was simply that they were there to be killed, by him preferably. Most of what she knew about actually being kindred came from what she had learned before she had met him, when she had been the Professor's ghoul. The only thing he'd really ever tried to tell her had been so garbled by his own issues that she hadn't really understood at the time.
It was shortly after they'd fled from Los Angeles. She'd had no idea what drove him eastward with such fervor at the time. All she knew was the he ran. And then, somewhere in the middle of nowhere New Mexico they'd been jumped by Sabbat. It was just three of them, which is probably what saved their lives because Everett fought them alone. He insisted Marianne stay out of the fray and she was more than willing to do so. He bloodied them up well enough so they could flee. And as they raced down the highway he tried to explain.
"The blood gets up, ya know? It's what makes us Brujah. It's what makes us... it's what makes us us. There's something that burns in all of us and when you see it you've got no choice but to stand up for it. Mine is the Sabbat, you see." He spit. "They all gotta die, you see."
Marianne did not see. And he'd never really bothered to explain. In the following decade she loved him, hated him, and left him. But she never really understood exactly what he'd been trying to get at.It had been other Brujah, later on, that she met that explained the Cause to her. And she had assumed that she'd just not really had one. It made sense given her history.
As she methodically put the books on their shelves she knew she'd been wrong all those decades ago. Because now her blood was up. Because now there was something burning in her heart that would not die. Because now she knew exactly what it was that drove her forward to eternity.
"It's not right," she said to herself. "Like playing chess with a damned pigeon. It's gonna shit all over the board, knock over all the pieces, and declare itself the winner no matter what you do. And that... that's not right. I'm not playing any of their games. I'm not joining any of their teams. I won't be corralled and emotionally manipulated. Nope, it's time to stand up and tell them 'no'. Because I don't like bullies and I don't like being forced to choose and I really, really don't like these damn Ancients!"
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Raven
This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
Raven
by Simon W.
Inge couldn't sleep. Luna showed Her full face to Gaia in their eons old dance. Dagmar has fallen into an uneasy semblance of sleep finally. Albin (as she must call him now) was at least settled down and resting if not truly sleeping. Inge carefully wandered the boundaries of the sept, barefoot, bare headed, and full of an overabundance of feelings. Occasionally she could see the guardians on their rounds but they didn't stop her. She didn't go past the bawn but she wandered somewhat aimlessly otherwise.
Eventually she found herself at the place where she'd laid out Raven's body. She didn't know what else to do for the woman who had so unfairly died. Now that the rush of adrenaline was over, now that she, Victor, and Albin were free of that place, she was finding that her anger and rage were cooling into an emotion she really would have rather not confronted; grief.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the corpse. "You died because of my pride and my sense of honor and justice and that's not right. You shouldn't have had to pay the price for my actions."
Raven had told Inge her given name once, all half dozen lyrical syllables. Inge had looked at her in guilty confusion at the realization that she wouldn't even pronounce it correctly. "It's ok," Raven had said, "You can call me Raven." Raven had taught Inge many of the rites she had learned recently. Raven had been adventurous and righteous and brave, everything Inge considered herself not to be. Inge had appreciated being around the younger woman even when they clearly approached life from opposite directions.
And now Raven was gone, killed by Masterson's knife perhaps but also by Inge's decision to not give him what he'd wanted.
There was a loud crack as a tree branch broke off of a nearby tree. The wind had been high the last few weeks and this wasn't unexpected. But it made Inge shiver, as she remembered the snap of doom from the mouth of the giant snapping turtle that had eaten the formori as they made their escape. It had saved them but it had still felt... desolate somehow. Inge wasn't extremely well versed in just what had happened to Turtle but she knew that Raven had been trying to find a way to save him and.. well she'd clearly formed some sort of connection with him. Unfortunately it had come too late for her personally.
Come morning there would be work to do. Half the sept was unable to care for themselves because of harano. There were kin, local and distant, to be reassured. There was wounds to see to and Inge had an ever growing list of people and entities to enact vengeance on. But tonight, while the moon rode through the sky, Inge would sit with Raven. She bowed her head and cried; finally unable to keep the grief at bay.
Raven
by Simon W.
Inge couldn't sleep. Luna showed Her full face to Gaia in their eons old dance. Dagmar has fallen into an uneasy semblance of sleep finally. Albin (as she must call him now) was at least settled down and resting if not truly sleeping. Inge carefully wandered the boundaries of the sept, barefoot, bare headed, and full of an overabundance of feelings. Occasionally she could see the guardians on their rounds but they didn't stop her. She didn't go past the bawn but she wandered somewhat aimlessly otherwise.
Eventually she found herself at the place where she'd laid out Raven's body. She didn't know what else to do for the woman who had so unfairly died. Now that the rush of adrenaline was over, now that she, Victor, and Albin were free of that place, she was finding that her anger and rage were cooling into an emotion she really would have rather not confronted; grief.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the corpse. "You died because of my pride and my sense of honor and justice and that's not right. You shouldn't have had to pay the price for my actions."
Raven had told Inge her given name once, all half dozen lyrical syllables. Inge had looked at her in guilty confusion at the realization that she wouldn't even pronounce it correctly. "It's ok," Raven had said, "You can call me Raven." Raven had taught Inge many of the rites she had learned recently. Raven had been adventurous and righteous and brave, everything Inge considered herself not to be. Inge had appreciated being around the younger woman even when they clearly approached life from opposite directions.
And now Raven was gone, killed by Masterson's knife perhaps but also by Inge's decision to not give him what he'd wanted.
There was a loud crack as a tree branch broke off of a nearby tree. The wind had been high the last few weeks and this wasn't unexpected. But it made Inge shiver, as she remembered the snap of doom from the mouth of the giant snapping turtle that had eaten the formori as they made their escape. It had saved them but it had still felt... desolate somehow. Inge wasn't extremely well versed in just what had happened to Turtle but she knew that Raven had been trying to find a way to save him and.. well she'd clearly formed some sort of connection with him. Unfortunately it had come too late for her personally.
Come morning there would be work to do. Half the sept was unable to care for themselves because of harano. There were kin, local and distant, to be reassured. There was wounds to see to and Inge had an ever growing list of people and entities to enact vengeance on. But tonight, while the moon rode through the sky, Inge would sit with Raven. She bowed her head and cried; finally unable to keep the grief at bay.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Post Apocalyptic Musings
This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
Post Apocalyptic Musings
by Simon W.
The Apocalypse War has ended, and we lost.
Very few Garou will tell you that. But we are living in a post-apocalyptic world now. And it is as much as a struggle as you might expect from such a time and place.
It's not the first time in the history of the Nation that we have lost the war though. Every time we fight it, we lose. You see, it is the job of the Nation to fight against the enemies of Gaia and to defend Her.
It is not our job to win.
You will tell me that these are just the bitter words of an old woman who has seen much and lost much. But I don't say these things to discourage you! No, I want you to listen to me and learn.
We have lost the war. The war is done. Now it's time to work; because despite the propaganda that it would be otherwise the world is still here and Gaia still needs us. The world is going to shit so I need you to take your Honor and take your Glory and use them to pick up a shovel and give me a hand!
There are people to feed.
There are wolves to protect.
There is land that needs restoring and there is water that needs purifying.
It is hard, boring work and no one is going to sing about it when you're done. In fact, it might even go completely unnoticed by your contemporaries. But it is the work that ensures that Gaia survives; that life continues, and that anyone will ever sing anything in the future.
So I ask you to join me. Because the Apocalypse has come and gone but we have a world to rebuild from the devastation. And I, for one, intend to do my fair share.
Post Apocalyptic Musings
by Simon W.
The Apocalypse War has ended, and we lost.
Very few Garou will tell you that. But we are living in a post-apocalyptic world now. And it is as much as a struggle as you might expect from such a time and place.
It's not the first time in the history of the Nation that we have lost the war though. Every time we fight it, we lose. You see, it is the job of the Nation to fight against the enemies of Gaia and to defend Her.
It is not our job to win.
You will tell me that these are just the bitter words of an old woman who has seen much and lost much. But I don't say these things to discourage you! No, I want you to listen to me and learn.
We have lost the war. The war is done. Now it's time to work; because despite the propaganda that it would be otherwise the world is still here and Gaia still needs us. The world is going to shit so I need you to take your Honor and take your Glory and use them to pick up a shovel and give me a hand!
There are people to feed.
There are wolves to protect.
There is land that needs restoring and there is water that needs purifying.
It is hard, boring work and no one is going to sing about it when you're done. In fact, it might even go completely unnoticed by your contemporaries. But it is the work that ensures that Gaia survives; that life continues, and that anyone will ever sing anything in the future.
So I ask you to join me. Because the Apocalypse has come and gone but we have a world to rebuild from the devastation. And I, for one, intend to do my fair share.
Friday, July 20, 2018
Chop Wood, Carry Water
This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
Chop Wood, Carry Water
by Simon W
Inge peered carefully around as she stood outside near the little cabin that was her new home. She'd come outside for some air under the moonlight. After years of relative obscurity she was taking her place once again in a sept but she found herself craving time to herself. And so she took it in the cool of the evening. Storms had rolled through the mountains earlier and there was enough moisture left so that every surface was covered in silvery dew.
It was time to reassess what she was doing now that she was settled. She was reminded of an old phrase her mother used to say, "chop wood, carry water". As a child she hadn't understood what it meant really. She'd only really learned what value was in it after that terrible day when Dagmar and her pack had gone to fight and only Dagmar had returned. Dagmar hadn't really been completely alright since. Inge still didn't know exactly what had happened and she wouldn't ask the only person who could tell her. Some wounds didn't heal, even after eight years.
In the first terrible days after it happened Inge had been completely overwhelmed with all of the questions, the what-ifs, and worries of the future. But she had people who needed her to be present, to be functional. So while Dagmar wandered to the mountains to grieve, Inge was left to tend to the day to day duties of mother, kin, and healer. She'd focused on each task as it lay before her slowly working her way through the years.
Of course she still missed Gunther. He had been a good mate to her and a good father to their children. But he had also been a warrior for Gaia and, as all Fenrir expected to, he had paid the price of death to defend Her. Inge truly hoped that his death had been an honorable one and that he'd slain those that were harming Gaia before he succumbed.
But now the figurative wood had all been chopped and the water carried. Heinrik, Lars, and Karl had mates and households of their own now. Sigrid was in training to become a warrior in her father's footsteps. Inge had come to the Sept of the Desert Wind to continue her care-giving, only for her sister now instead of her children. It wasn't going to be enough. Inge could feel it in her bones. And she didn't like this feeling of having no clear task before her. She had become dependent on the clear boundaries of her world. Things were shifting now and undefined.
Inge sighed. She gave one last look up to the sky, to see Luna's bright face. And then she went inside to busy herself and try not to think about what was missing in her life.
Monday, July 9, 2018
Cold Comfort
This is fan created fiction about a character in a Vampire: The Masquerade live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
Cold Comfort
by Simon W
Marianne stared at the note. It was written in a spare hand, as though the writer were more used to taking research notes than penning long letters. Or maybe she only thought it looked that way because she knew who wrote it. It occurred to her that it had been several decades since she had seen this handwriting. So much of the communication in recent nights was typed that hand written notes happened rarely. She wasn't old enough to really miss such things and moan for a past that no longer existed like some Elders she knew. It was just an observation.
It was also a lie.
Well... maybe not.
Right now she wasn't thinking about the past that no longer existed so much as she was thinking about a past and future that might have been had things not gone very, very differently.
The noise was absolutely horrific. Acolyte Dashwood hadn't even realized that the wards could be that loud. But then, she'd also never experienced a bunch of angry Kindred trying to break into the Chantry before. From the reactions of everyone around her, this was entirely unexpected. Something crashed behind her and she could feel some sort of magical discharge. She ducked instinctively, not wanting to get hit by whatever it was. She'd learned the hard way that magic discharge from careless Apprentices hurt, a lot.
She headed to the lab to make sure the Professor wasn't still there. She didn't think he'd be foolish enough to not leave but one never knew how much he was paying attention to the outside world when he was in the middle of his research. Granted, could anyone NOT pay attention to these terrible sounds? Above the screeching of the wards now there was a giant, nearly feral sounding yelling. The crowd of Kindred had breached the walls and they were angry.
No one was in the lab, thank goodness! Acolyte Dashwood wondered where to go next. Nothing was orderly or sensible right now. There was an evacuation plan, of course, but no one was actually following it that she could see. As she made her way through the chaos she finally found the Professor. A tall man with a blonde crew cut and a scar on the back of his neck was advancing on him.
"Hey!" shouted Marianne. "Hey, blondie!" That caught his attention. He turned around. Marianne casually raised her middle finger in an insulting way. He took the bait, and started coming toward her. "Run, Professor," she shouted as she ran away from the Kindred now chasing her.
And thus Marianne's life as a Brujah instead of a Tremere began. She had had many decades to try and reconcile herself to the fact that this was the case and she had even found things to value about her clan. If she were very honest her personality was more suited to who she was than to who she could have been. But it was still a sore spot.
And the letter writer knew that! So sending her a note to A. Dashwood was hurtful, cruel, vindictive, and rude. She'd cried over that note for the better part of the evening.
Toward dawn a thought occurred to her. Why would he want to hurt her feelings so much? Maybe... just maybe... he wasn't as immune to emotions as she believed.
It was cold comfort but for now she would take it.
Cold Comfort
by Simon W
Marianne stared at the note. It was written in a spare hand, as though the writer were more used to taking research notes than penning long letters. Or maybe she only thought it looked that way because she knew who wrote it. It occurred to her that it had been several decades since she had seen this handwriting. So much of the communication in recent nights was typed that hand written notes happened rarely. She wasn't old enough to really miss such things and moan for a past that no longer existed like some Elders she knew. It was just an observation.
It was also a lie.
Well... maybe not.
Right now she wasn't thinking about the past that no longer existed so much as she was thinking about a past and future that might have been had things not gone very, very differently.
The noise was absolutely horrific. Acolyte Dashwood hadn't even realized that the wards could be that loud. But then, she'd also never experienced a bunch of angry Kindred trying to break into the Chantry before. From the reactions of everyone around her, this was entirely unexpected. Something crashed behind her and she could feel some sort of magical discharge. She ducked instinctively, not wanting to get hit by whatever it was. She'd learned the hard way that magic discharge from careless Apprentices hurt, a lot.
She headed to the lab to make sure the Professor wasn't still there. She didn't think he'd be foolish enough to not leave but one never knew how much he was paying attention to the outside world when he was in the middle of his research. Granted, could anyone NOT pay attention to these terrible sounds? Above the screeching of the wards now there was a giant, nearly feral sounding yelling. The crowd of Kindred had breached the walls and they were angry.
No one was in the lab, thank goodness! Acolyte Dashwood wondered where to go next. Nothing was orderly or sensible right now. There was an evacuation plan, of course, but no one was actually following it that she could see. As she made her way through the chaos she finally found the Professor. A tall man with a blonde crew cut and a scar on the back of his neck was advancing on him.
"Hey!" shouted Marianne. "Hey, blondie!" That caught his attention. He turned around. Marianne casually raised her middle finger in an insulting way. He took the bait, and started coming toward her. "Run, Professor," she shouted as she ran away from the Kindred now chasing her.
And thus Marianne's life as a Brujah instead of a Tremere began. She had had many decades to try and reconcile herself to the fact that this was the case and she had even found things to value about her clan. If she were very honest her personality was more suited to who she was than to who she could have been. But it was still a sore spot.
And the letter writer knew that! So sending her a note to A. Dashwood was hurtful, cruel, vindictive, and rude. She'd cried over that note for the better part of the evening.
Toward dawn a thought occurred to her. Why would he want to hurt her feelings so much? Maybe... just maybe... he wasn't as immune to emotions as she believed.
It was cold comfort but for now she would take it.
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